


when your light reaches me

by SpineAndSpite



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - No Powers, M/M, No Metaverse (Persona 5), except not really because it's already a coffee shop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-14
Updated: 2017-09-14
Packaged: 2018-12-29 20:51:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12093192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpineAndSpite/pseuds/SpineAndSpite
Summary: Akechi focuses on his coffee, because it is no longer safe to steal continuous glances at the curly-haired barista. He has enough details memorized to focus on those instead--he is a detective, after all.





	when your light reaches me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [valiantarmor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/valiantarmor/gifts).



> I wrote this for Ren because he deserve all the akeshus. 
> 
> This AU is pretty much just "what if akechi got into the police academy instead of revenge".

_“Out of my league?_ ” Makoto leans against him in the booth, light refracting off her earrings as she follows his line of sight. “That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?” 

Akechi smiles mercilessly against the rim of his cup. “Who do you mean? The old man, the cat?” 

Makoto’s quiet laughter vibrates through the booth. Across the table, Sae looks at them over her tablet screen. 

“What are you two mumbling about?” 

Makoto dips a tea cookie into her Earl Grey. “Nothing important.” 

Akechi focuses on his coffee, because it is no longer safe to steal continuous glances at the curly-haired barista. He has enough details memorized to focus on those instead--he is a detective, after all. Or a detective in training, at least. Sharp brows, fashionable glasses, slender fingers that scoop grounds into filters and count out change. Aprons are hardly flattering, but the boy behind the counter makes them look good. 

“--this week, right?” 

Makoto nudges him. 

“Hmm?” He’d been staring into this drink, trying to remember what color the barista’s eyes are. 

Sae frowns. “You two have your first exam this week, don’t you?” 

“Next week,” Akechi says, before his attention drifts away again, Sae’s next question lost in the susurrus of his thoughts. Had the barista been wearing a nametag? He can’t remember. He’d been too busy reminding himself it isn’t polite to stare. 

When their coffee is gone and Makoto has lost a few more cookies in her tea, Sae reaches into her jacket for her wallet. 

Akechi puts a quelling hand on her arm. “I’ve got it,” he smiles. 

Sae’s eyebrows go up. It isn’t like Akechi to turn down a free meal--his scholarship only stretches so far. 

He gets up before he can see Makoto’s amusement. He’s not sure why she finds his infatuation humorous. Perhaps because he typically has such little time for strangers, for anyone who isn’t immediately relevant to his goals. Or maybe it’s exactly what she joked about earlier--that this pretty boy is out of his league and always will be. 

_Don’t be self-pitying_ , he admonishes himself. _He’s a part-timer in a coffee shop, probably a university student. And he isn’t even_ that _good looking--_

“Anything else I can get you?” 

Akechi’s lungs seize and his mouth works for a second or two before he manages, “No, just the bill please.” 

“Alright.” The barista’s mouth doesn’t twitch, but humor still threads his words. His eyes are grey, it turns out, and shot through with black. Although that could just be the light. He isn’t wearing a nametag. 

_Smile_ , Akechi tells himself. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do to show people you’re interested? He tries, but he really only has one sort of smile. Polite, placid, designed to coax trust and capitulation. _I’m harmless_ , that smile says. _I’m harmless and inoffensive and you definitely want to help me get what I want._ When you have so little influence of your own, you learn to convince others to share theirs. 

He doesn’t want to smile that way to this boy. He doesn’t want to charm or coerce. He isn’t sure he actually could. He wants to meet him on the same level. The smooth confidence in his movements, the steady gaze, it all speaks of a kind of power Akechi isn’t sure he understands. It’s not money or fame or political influence. 

“1600 yen all together.” There’s a little dish on the counter for cash, but the barista holds his hand out instead. The sleeve of his sweater rolls back as he does, revealing a small tattoo on the inside of his wrist. A playing card--the black joker. 

Akechi shakes a few coins out into his hand. His mouth is very dry and his heart is pounding harder than it had at his police academy entrance exam. This boy is a puzzle he doesn’t know how to begin to solve. 

The cash register chimes, and the sleek black cat with a bright yellow collar hops up onto the counter. The barista with the joker tattoo scratches under its chin. 

“You’re, ah, busy this time of morning,” Akechi says senselessly. Boy and cat both look at him in appraisal. The cat makes a low trilling mew, and if Akechi didn’t know better he’d say he was being laughed at. 

Joker taps the cash register, and it lets out an anxious whirring noise as the receipt printer jams. “Do you ever come in on weeknights?” With a deft twitch of his hands he flips the printer open, unsticking the tape by rote. It’s all Akechi can do not to look down at his fingers while they work. 

“Ah, no, I haven’t--.” 

“It’s much quieter,” Joker says. “Usually no one but me and Morgana.” 

“Who--?” 

The cat yawns hugely and hops back down behind the counter. 

Akechi laughs. “Ah.” 

Joker flips the printer shut and it whirs back into action, behaving this time. He hands Akechi his change and receipt. Akechi imagines what evenings at Leblanc must be like, the shadows slowly lengthening over the glossy bar, lights coming on in the street outside, the low drone of the news on the TV on the wall. Akechi tries to picture what it would be like to be the only one here, to be the center of Joker’s attention. 

A stupidly domestic fantasy about a boy whose real name he doesn’t even know, who he pays for a service. But in a strange, uncomplicated way, he wants it. More than he’s wanted anything in a very long time. 

He doesn’t want to use Joker. He just wants to know him. 

It’s a few weeks before Akechi has time to return to Leblanc. He and Makoto make it through their first exam. The results are predictable; Makoto’s score is higher than his by quite a margaine. That’s how it’s always been. Akechi doesn’t have an overachieving sister riding his ass, and he doesn’t have an apartment with reliable heat, water, or electricity. That can make studying difficult. 

There’s also the possibility that Makoto is just smarter than he is, but he doesn’t let himself dwell on that for too long. 

It’s a drizzly evening in October when Akechi finds himself one stop away from Yongenjaya with a desire for coffee and the chance to rest his brain for just a few minutes.

The scene isn’t quite like his sunny romantic vision. There’s no sun to paint patterns onto the counter, and he isn’t the only customer. An old man sits at the far end of the bar with a newspaper and a couple occupies one of the booths. Water drips off Akechi’s bangs and into his eyes. 

The barista looks up as Akechi shakes out his umbrella. He does another one of those smiles without smiling, a loosening of his body language. He gestures Akechi to a seat in front of him. 

“Coffee?” 

The humidity pulls his hair down into little spiraling curls over his forehead, the longest bouncing against the frame of his glasses. Today Akechi will ask his name. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Coffee sounds good.”


End file.
